The Green Mile
by chocca2
Summary: Set season three. Dean’s deal is hanging over him like a freshly sharpened guillotine, Bobby sends the boys to Ohio to look into a haunted farmhouse. Hurt!Boys and major whumpage!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Ha, Me? Own the Winchesters? Only in my dreams *wink*  
**Summary: ****Set** after '**Jus in Bello'** season three. Dean's deal is hanging over him like a freshly sharpened guillotine. Sam and Bobby they are doing the best they can to find a way out. But life still goes on, and Bobby sends the boys to Ohio to look into a haunted farmhouse. Things don't go according to plan.

**AN:** Sweet charity fic for unplugged32 who bought me in the final auction. She requested lashings of Dean whump and good ole fashion brotherly bonding. Needless to say, I had too much fun with this. Kindly beta'd by ficwriter1966, she's awesome!!! Any other faults my own.

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_We cannot banish dangers, but we can banish fears. We must not demean life by standing in awe of death. ~David Sarnoff_

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Zeppelin was blaring inside the Impala's chassis, almost inaudible against the gush of wind from wound down windows. Dean's hand dangled out against the door, fingers spread combing through a cool breeze as refreshing as the view.

Lush green meadows, crop fields of golden wheat and corn, rolling hills, mountain backdrop; place had it all. Little house on the prairie, eat your heart out. Bobby was right, this wasn't your usual gig and Dean had to admit the farm, the view, blue skies, the whole picturesque setting, was breathtaking.

"This place is really something, huh?" Sam echoed, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Tell you what, we finish up early, Sammy, and I'll let you go 'n make daisy chains." He smirked, waggled his brows. Dean wasn't gonna let on that he'd spotted daisies in the meadow. He was more horrified of the fact he _knew_ those lil white 'n yellow flowers were daisies. Totally Missouri's fault. He stockpiled that painful memory back where it belonged.

"Jerk." His younger brother rolled his eyes, continued his gaze out the window.

"Oh come on, Sammy, Bobby bought us a whole week at this joint. That leaves plenty of time to play." The old man sure had connections and what seemed to be an endless supply of cases up his sleeve. Damn, the guy knew how to pull those strings. If Bobby couldn't do it, he wasn't sure anyone could. Bobby also knew when to call it quits and come up for air, unlike Sam, who was drowning in his own 'deal' crap. The stench of defeat clung to his skin, it smothered him. Hell close enough its billowing smoke grew in the horizon.

"I like that you assume this is gonna be an easy job, Dean."

"Hey, didn't say anything 'bout this case being easy. But we got at least five days here. For once maybe we can drag it out a bit-- sit back 'n enjoy the countryside…" He shrugged, pondered for a moment. "Be one with nature?" He wondered when he'd see blue skies and green fields again, whether his lungs would breathe air this pure and clean.

Sam stared at him for a while, brow and mouth scrunched up. He finished the expression with something bordering a sigh. His brother had a knack for looking concerned, pissed and confused at the same time; he'd been giving Dean that look an awful lot lately. Dean didn't really blame the kid; he couldn't say he'd been feeling or acting himself. Some of his recent antics had those concerns rightfully justified.

Sam came back with a question. "Seriously, Dean, are you high?"

Dean gave his brother a playful nudge. Since Sam had found him high as a kite, middle of a field with imaginary evil bunnies, he wouldn't stop asking if he was on drugs. Dean had latched onto the tattered tail of craziness swirling around him. Let its fantastical buzz take him to new highs, he gripped on and rode it hard till he asphyxiated and came crashing down into sanity's arms. He was grateful that for him sanity wore the face of his younger brother.

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The inside was just as impressive as out. Rustic solid oak furniture, worn wooden floors, gag worthy floral and paisley decor.

It was a home.

The kitchen was open plan with a large wooden table in the centre. On it, a vase with wilted flowers and a folded sheet of paper resting on the side. It was addressed 'Sam and Dean'.

Sam dropped his bag on the table, loosened and rolled his shoulders. There was enough rock salt in the bag to last them a month. They knew the basics for the case but they still had a lot of research to do. It was a haunting, that much they knew. Something they could solve. An open-shut case and a much needed distraction.

In the past week, Sam had been living, eating and breathing to save Dean's soul. Even though it seemed every avenue hit a ten foot brick wall, if they'd let him, he would have continued to spend every living moment trying to knock each one down. Bobby finally put his foot down and insisted they take a breather. So in true hunter style, the old man sent them on a case. Most normal people may go on vacation but for the Winchesters, this was just the break they needed. Sam slid a hand round the back of his neck, chuckled silently and looked towards his brother; Bobby knew them well, too well.

"Dude, there's pie." Dean was by the fridge waving a yellow post-it note. His eyes lit up as he ogled at the dish. For a split second Sam was sure he saw something he hadn't seen in his brother for a while.

Sam smiled back and went to read the letter on the table.

_Gentlemen,_

_I understand you deal with these type of__ situations. I don't know what to tell you other than there is something evil dwelling in our property. On many occasions I have feared for our lives. Whatever is here is angry and relentless. Needless to say we are both grateful and in debt to you._

_My husband found some documents on the property; deeds, albums, all of which are in a box by the landing. There may be more in the attic and basement. There is a pull down ladder to the attic and the door to the basement is open. The room downstairs opposite the landing has a bed and bathroom. It seems to be the least active and safest room left, and we would lock ourselves into this room at night. Nights are the worst, it's just unbearable. _

_I'm not sure what else you need to know, but if there's anything else, anything at all, don't hesitate to contact my husband and I on 555-675-1180._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Mrs. Littman_

Sam sighed as he folded the paper in half. The Littmans' fear was etched in every word; a desperation he could relate to coated every dotted 'i' and crossed 't'.

It looked like a nice family home, and he hoped they could restore it to that for the Littmans . They say sometimes helping others can help yourself, Sam reminded himself

Dean slapped the post-it on the table and pointed to the fridge. "There's enough home cooking in there to feed an army. This job is sweeeet."

Sam looked down at the table, savored the sweetness of denial and smiled back at Dean.

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Bobby's cooking wasn't half bad when he made the effort. Dean wouldn't file it under comfort food but it was close. Simple, basic chow and according to Bobby and Sam, it was nutritious. It was safe to say when they stayed at Bobby's they usually ate well. Between motels, cheap diners and fast food joints, it'd been a long time since he'd had some real home cooking. Good old fashioned food that had been prepared from scratch, put together and then cooked rather nuked.

Dean licked his finger. There was no denying Mrs Littman kicked butt in the kitchen. The woman could bake a mean apple pie. Add that to the list of casserole, lasagna and roast he found in the fridge, Dean took this opportunity to indulge.

"You done yet?"

Apparently Sam didn't appreciate the grub as much as he did.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean took another forkful of pie. "You can't deny this is probably the best pie you've eaten in months--years."

Sam nodded and inhaled deeply. "True…but come on, we've got lots to do and we still have to scope the place." He gave his brother a lopsided smile. "Preferably before it gets dark. From the reports, looks like Casper comes out to play at night."

Dean nodded and scarfed down the last forkful, washing it down with some beer. He stood tucking his inner shirt back into his jeans, then refastened his belt – the one he'd loosened to allow him to gorge. With his mouth still stuffed of food, he beamed at Sam, shimmied his belt up and down, and stated, "Had to make room."

"I worry about you."

"Likewise, Sammy, likewise."

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"In 1976, Fred Hudson murdered his wife and three sons. He stabbed them to death then later shot himself. Police recovered four bodies from the scene." Sam looked up from the document, leaned against the wall, he watched as Dean loaded the shotgun. The Littmans hadn't mentioned that.

"You're kidding me, right?" Dean paused, pointing the muzzle to the ground.

"What?"

"Four bodies? What happened to the fifth?" He sat cowboy-style, placing the gun against his right leg.

"Never found." Sam gave him a grim expression.

"Well, looks like we found our ghost." They nodded in unison.

"Basement or attic?" Dean dug into his jeans pocket, pulled out a nickel. "I'll flip ya."

"What no rock, paper, scissors?" Sam bit his lip and smirked.

"Haha, you're hilarious -- I call heads." He flipped the coin and slapped it over the top of his hand. "Well lookie here, Sammy, you got the attic."

"Gee, and I wanted the basement so bad, Dean. You really lucked out this time." It was smothered in sarcasm and taut with mockery.

"Smartass. I already checked the attic ladder. Termites have had a feast so have fun getting up there," Dean said smugly. "Oh, and the cobweb haven you're about to trudge through?" He watched Sam pale and frown as he picked up his weapon. "Enjoy." The boy wasn't a wuss but when it came to spiders, Sam sure could act like one. Sam grimaced at the thought of his face wrapped in weaves of tacky webs.

They'd already checked all the bedrooms, and all other rooms in the house. There was still no sign of their ghost. Reports mentioned flickering lights, strange noises and moving objects, none of which they'd seen yet. But the EMF said otherwise. The Littmans had to have been completely freaked out to have given up their house to strangers so easily.

"Here," Dean threw Sam a newly purchased EMF device. "You know I hate that thing. This right here's the real deal." He held up the meter he'd made from an old Walkman back while Sam was away at Stanford.

"Right." Sam refrained from further comment.

"You find anything...you holla. Got it?" Dean was by the door holding up one of a pair of walkie-talkies. Banter aside safety always came first. They might be scoping out some rooms separately but they dealt with things together.

Sam saluted him sarcastically. "Over 'n out," he replied through his radio.

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There was nothing but a strung-out sizzle of static and white noise.

Dean hit the EMF against the palm of his hand and shook it. The needle danced but remained in the same position. Maybe his custom-made kit had crapped out after all. He shook it again, but it merely buzzed.

Something was either seriously wrong with this ghost or his EMF was fucked.

Both equally feasible, neither the case.

He heard Sam's muffled voice through the radio.

"Dean, get your ass up here and give me a hand. I got something."

By something, Sam meant a worn, moth-eaten sack containing remains. Thirty three years abandoned in an attic hadn't left much but rubble of fragmented bones. From the reports and research it was likely to have been, Matthew Hudson, the missing ten year old boy.

"This right here is our fifth body." Sam coughed through the sprinkling of dust dancing around them as he analyzed a piece of cracked skull.

"It's not right, dude". Dean shook his head, disapproving. It didn't add up. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but it was too cut-and-dried for his liking.

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Dean squeezed the pliable plastic bottle generously, spilling accelerant over the remains.

Lighter fumes instantly hit their senses; usually it a welcomed scent that carried with it hints of resolution and peace. However, as Dean waited and watched his brother flick a burning match into their makeshift grave, he shook his head again. "It's not right."

Sam looked up at him and sighed sympathetically. "I know, least he's at peace now."

"I didn't mean the kid, Sam. It's just…this whole thing felt too…easy."

Sam huffed. "Easy?"

"Seriously, dude, it doesn't bother you that the body was tucked away in the attic? In an unlocked chest? I mean come on, that's just… And the fact Casper let us carry his bones out here without so much as a flickering light? It never plays out this way."

"I dunno, Dean. Maybe we're just good at what we do?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

There was a pause as they watched the red and orange flames dance and sputter in the wind.

"I think I know what this is about."

Dean turned and faced Sam. "Oh yeah, what's this about?"

"I'm not trying to start anything but I know you're stalling. And look, I get it, okay. The Deal, Hell, finding a way out – I know none of this is easy on you, dude. I honestly have no idea how you're supposed to deal with this crap. Just… you have to know that I'm not giving up on you without a fight?"

Dean pressed his lips together, took in a deep breath, did his best to calm his nerves. Sam may not have been meaning to start an argument but he sure knew which buttons to press. There was truth in his words; he had to give him that. But for once this wasn't about his damned soul or the fucking Deal, this was about the case, the one right in front of them. Sam was so blinded by everything else he couldn't even see straight. It seemed no matter what they did, the whole screwed up mess became part of every single thing he did, it hijacked every thought, every encounter, every last living day he had left.

Dean took one look at his brother, saw the desperation and concern on Sam's face. He sighed, tried to explain. "Sammy--"

He was cut off before he could finish. "You're my brother, Dean. I can't _not_ do anything about this. You would do the same for me."

For Dean the conversation was over. Sam was right, though – situation turned, he would do the same a hundred times over and they'd find themselves in the same vicious circle over and over again. He didn't know which fact made him sadder. Winchesters had kamikaze flowing through their blood.

"I'm tired, Sam. I'm gonna grab a shower and hit the sack. We'll leave tomorrow."

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Sam watched his brother walk back into the house.

He looked down at the burning rubble. The last time they'd had that conversation, it hadn't ended so well. Dean was more sensitive than he'd like to admit. His brother had many layers, and the more Sam scratched on the surface the more he'd reveal how deep they went. Less than a month to go and he was still finding new sides to Dean.

Sam's breath caught. He dropped to his knees. Less than thirty days left and he still hadn't found a way out.

He's said it to Bobby many times before – he couldn't lose his brother. His brain wouldn't even entertain the idea. With help from the Trickster, he'd tasted life without Dean. Tasted it and regurgitated it with a vengeance.

If everything played out the way Lilith wanted, there'd be two souls that would die on that coming day, one banished to the lower pits of Hell awaiting endless unspeakable torture, and another left to rot and suffer on earth.

Sam smashed his fists into the ground. Picked up a handful of dirt, violently chucked it into the smoldering grave. He did it till his nails were caked with soil, till the pressure made them ache and bleed.

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Dean woke to the smell of fried bacon.

He'd finally fallen sleep on the bed in the guest room. It was a decent bed and his back was thankful for it. He stood and stretched, then followed the tantalizing aromas to the kitchen.

"Hey." Dean pulled out a chair and sat at the polished oak table.

"Sleep well?" Sam placed a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.

"Like a baby. What's all this?"

"Breakfast." Sam huffed. Dean could see through the mask his brother had on and he decided he'd let it go, for now.

"Listen, I still have a funny feeling about this case--"

Sam cut him off. "I know. Look, man, how 'bout we do more research? Make sure we've covered all bases and leave later today?"

Dean took a sip of coffee, smooth, strong and sweet, the way he liked it.

"Yeah, sounds good."

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They ate breakfast in peace before they hit the books.

Sam surfed the net and scanned through old papers. EMF pulled up nothing and Dean was finally satisfied that the case was well and truly over, and the Littmans' property was _clean_. Not so much in the housekeeping way; dust from the attic managed to get everywhere, and there was a mounting pile of dishes from Dean's clean out of the fridge. But the job was done, the house free from ghosts.

Dean packed up while he checked in with Bobby to let them know they'd be on their way soon.

Minutes later they were in the car _almost_ ready to go. Apparently Dean wasn't.

Sam cleared his throat, glanced over to the driver's seat.

"Okay, okay, sheesh, we're going." Dean sat up straight and placed a hand over his stomach, grimacing. "Right after I get back from the john."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Quit stalling."

"I'm not stalling, Sam. There's a limit to how much good food a man can eat on his own. You leaving me to it wasn't such a good idea – I'm cramping like a son of bitch." He grimaced again. "Seriously, dude, I gotta take care of business." Dean stepped out of the Impala.

"Thanks for the detail."

He ducked his head to eye level and grinned. "You're welcome."

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Ten minutes later, Sam stopped reading; he let the book slide from his lap onto cold leather, and glared down at his watch.

Twenty minutes in and the sun had dipped into the horizon staining the sky with blood orange hues. The moon peeked in the shadows, chasing it all away. Business or not, Dean wouldn't be gone this long. He eyed his cell phone then shook his head. He was past twitchy.

Sam got out of the car and made his way up the drive, gravel and dirt crunching under his feet. As he approached he noticed no lights and the front door gaping open.

As soon as he stepped inside he knew something was wrong. Same squidgy feeling you get when you know you've stepped in shit.

The house was cloaked in darkness with only sparse beams of light offered from the retreating sun. There was an eerie silence and a spine-chilling whirl of wind floating in mid air.

His gun was drawn as he moved cautiously through the rooms.

Sam's heart throbbed hard against his chest. Before he could register what he was doing, he was yelling Dean's name, his voice strained and desperate.

The only response came from the house. It creaked and groaned furiously, as the unnatural wind gathered around him and picked up speed.

He reached the landing and began making his way up the stairs. He may not have been able to see the entity in the house, but his gut and the hairs on the back of his neck told himthe entity could see _him_.

A chilling screech rang through the foyer, tense and vengeful – nothing close to a human voice, but it was a clear threat.

At the top of the stairs, something swirled and brushed past him, enough that he felt the nudge on his shoulder, and it left every hair on his neck standing.

The lights flicked violently. He was about to shout out for Dean when a hand clapped over his mouth. Dean poised a finger over his lips. "Shh." He had his shotgun —drawn and ready.

Dean slowly removed his hand from Sam's mouth.

"Dude, I hope you've washed your hands." Sam took a deep breath and searched his brother's eyes for the next move. Dean had been right all along.

"We got company," Dean stated, calm and collected, completely unfazed, an ability he'd inherited from their dad. Sam wondered if he could ever learn to be like that.

"Yeah, I gathered," Sam countered, swallowing hard. Dean gripped his shoulder and ushered him towards the stairs.

They were halfway down the stairs when wood began to splinter and shatter into pieces. A thunderous groan vibrated through the house, its frame curving inwards, sides concave like a crushed can. Then came the smell of rotten eggs. Sulphur usually meant _demon_, but the hiss that followed suggested otherwise. Gas snaked and ate its way through any breathable air.

The entities materialized at the top of the stairs, first one, then another, grinning maliciously.

It took only a second for a match to scrap against sandpaper, less than a second to send the Winchesters into a world of pain.

The explosion that followed turned the room into a cloud of unforgiving flames.

-----End of chapter one-----

TBC

Reviews are love


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Ha, Me? Own the Winchesters? Only in my dreams *wink*  
**Summary: ****Set** after '**Jus in Bello'** season three. Dean's deal is hanging over him like a freshly sharpened guillotine. Sam and Bobby they are doing the best they can to find a way out. But life still goes on, and Bobby sends the boys to Ohio to look into a haunted farmhouse. Things don't go according to plan.

**A/N:** Sweet charity fic for unplugged32 who bought me in the final auction. Oh man, I never planned to leave it this long to update, I'm so sorry. I got sick, then bigbang deadline came, then rl suckage…I won't bore you with all the details but it's finally done. Thanks for being patient. Kindly beta'd by ficwriter1966, she's awesome!!! Any other faults my own. Oh and I've taken some liberties with the injuries here, please forgive me. There's also A LOT of regurgitation. Yum! lol You've been warned!

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Fear and courage are brothers. ~Proverb

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Dean was aware of two things immediately after the explosion.

First was the intense heat and fury of the flash fire. It had knocked him sideways, away from the thick of it but was still enough that he felt the initial damage, the way it voraciously singed hairs and ate at his exposed skin, could have been a lot worse. He was betting on first, possibly second degree burns on his arms; the tightness and rawness of his skin suggested worse but at that moment in time he didn't give a rat's ass which degree of burn it was, flame against bare flesh fucking hurt like hell, no diagnosis needed.

More concerning than that was the absence of Sam, who he'd had a firm grip on. Kid of his height and size didn't take flight easily, and the fact that Sam had been flung like a puppet into the air made Dean's pulse race and a chill ripple down his spine, hot then cold, a distraction that didn't last long.

Something gave way, his knees, the stairwell, the whole fucking building? He wasn't sure but he knew he was in motion, violently thrown off his feet and falling--waiting to hit the bottom …that never came.

He hit something, though; it was solid, cold and metal.

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Sam bounced off the wall, long disoriented legs scrambled across the floor and he dodged some rumble but couldn't avoid a large wooden object that landed on his head.

When he next opened his eyes, they were sore and bleary from smoke. The area that was once a landing was now a mess of broken beams and cracked flooring. At the top of the stairway was a frenzy of angry orange flames. There was a large gaping hole in the middle of the staircase; it was at that moment that he felt the nauseating twist in his stomach. The damage had caused a chasm that covered most of the steps, the same flight of steps where he'd stood with Dean, but Dean was nowhere to be seen. It didn't take a genius to figure out where Dean could be.

Sam pushed through dizziness and fragmented pieces of the house as he crawled towards the wall. He scooped up his gun, its cool metal trembling in his lose grip, and tucked it into the back of his pants. With his shoulder he pushed up against the wall, desperately trying to stand, but his legs were weak and his knees buckled. The third time worked a charm but soon as he was vertical he came back down hard enough to knock him unconscious.

After he came to, it was another ten minutes till he successfully managed to stand and stay standing.

A bunch of unsteady steps, pain-filled groans and jumbled curses got him to the foot of the staircase. His eyes dilated and focused into the black void which he now assumed lead to the basement. He also assumed that it would be the first place to search for Dean. But there was no room for assumptions.

"Dean!" His voice came out weak, folded in the air and melted into silence.

Sam tried again, adding more desperation into his call. "Dean!" He paused, waited, heard nothing but his own heart beat racing against his chest.

On his way down to the basement he grabbed a flashlight from the Littmans' well-stocked kitchen. He also tried his cell and found no signal, no battery – nothing. Useless. If he didn't have a brother to find, he would have echoed the same about himself.

"Dean, I'm coming man, hang in there." He was running on adrenalin, the best drug for situations like this; great for pain and endurance. Shit for nausea and concussion, though, not to mention its side effects. He paused, swallowed hard. The floor rippled beneath him, and he placed the flat of his right hand against the wall for support, tucked his head low and puked like there was no tomorrow. Sure felt like there'd be no tomorrow, that he'd die right there, puking his guts out. When he thought he was done, he slowly straightened and took a few steps forward before he heaved some more, this time on his shoes.

Sam dragged an arm across his mouth. Took a few deep breaths and moved forward, cursing himself for the time he'd already wasted. He knew it was very likely Dean was hurt, possibly also concussed judging by the depth of the basement – it would have been quite a fall from that staircase.

What Sam wasn't prepared for was the extent of Dean's injuries.

He shone the torch across the floor, zig zagging rays over cracked walls and following a straight path towards the ceiling, over the open crater. Dean hadn't even made it to the ground in the basement. He was suspended midway, about eight and half feet from ground level, balancing on a thick wooden beam. It appeared the beam had broken his fall, possibly broken other things as well. A couple of steps closer revealed his brother had also been skewered through his left thigh by a long, thin spike of broken pipe, his body limp and layered on top like a human kebab. His left knee dangled loosely in mid air, and even under denim Sam could tell by the awkward disposition and slight increased length, it was _too_ loose, clearly dislocated.

"Jesus…Dean?"

Sam stretched as far as he could, but his clammy fingers only managed to brush over Dean's boots and hook into the tapered ends of Dean's jeans.

"I'm gonna get you down…don't worry…I'll have you down in no time. You're gonna be fine, okay?" He was panting and rambling to himself, because Dean was out cold. Sam continued to repeat the anxious affirmation in his head; he thought it was probably best his brother stayed unconscious while he got him down. That's _if_ he could find a way to get him down.

There was at least four inches of pipe sticking out of Dean's thigh, pinning him down to the beam, not to mention the fact the bottom half of his leg swayed like it were on the end of piece of string.

Sam clasped the back of Dean's neck desperately with both hands; his eyes scanned the immediate surrounds, each time glancing up towards Dean.

He tried to string together a plan that didn't involve them both face-planting the ground. Each plan looked to end the same way. It would hurt like hell; he just had to pick the lesser of the evils on how he did it. Yet again it was confirmation that a simple run of the mill hunt was never fucking simple. It should have been a salt 'n burn--job done, hit the road. But just like everything else in their lives, there was always more, always a twist, never a fucking open 'n shut case. For a few seconds Sam was furious at …just about everything. His chest pulled tight, stringently inhaling rigorous breaths. He wanted to scream from the bottom of his lungs, wanted—_needed_--to release the tornado of frustration swirling inside and he would have if he didn't need the energy to help his brother.

Droplets of sweat seeped into his eyes; its salty tang cooling a flame that wasn't there, he blinked away a watery blur and looked up again when he heard a steady flow of indignant moans.

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Dean cracked an eye open, squinting at his angry leg. When the hazed vision settled, he had visual confirmation he _did_ have a chunk of pipe sticking out of his leg. Not to mention the awkward excruciating pull on his knee joint that screeched dislocation loud and friggin' clear. In short, his leg was fucked.

A low, deep groan bubbled through his throat, tiny vibrations causing the icy metal to scrape against raw, tender flesh. To say it hurt was an understatement and a gross one at that.

"Hey…hey, I'm here, I'm gonna get you down, okay…try not to move."

Move was exactly what Dean did, but only slightly. He had to see if Sam was really there and not just a fragment of his imagination, and those words of Sam's were never good news. The move caused him to scream long and loud, deep from his lungs, made his eyes leak renegade tears and his throat contract and constrict. He needed to breathe and throw up all at once.

A cool, steady hand appeared on his chest, firm but gentle, helping him get a handle on the breathing. "Come on, Dean…I got you… that's it, nice and slow. In and out, dude." Dean closed his eyes and tried to focus on the familiar voice, used it as a distraction from the wreck that was his leg.

Sam didn't speak again till Dean had opened his eyes. "You with me?" Voice low but audible. "I'm gonna get you down, okay?"

"Sammy--knock me….out." Dean swallowed hard, repeated then gagged and swallowed again. He decided that throwing up would only cause more discomfort, although the pain he was going through made choking on your own vomit seem a feasible option. "Pleeee…sss."

"I…Dean, I don't think I can..."

"I'm sorry, dude… I need you with me on this, okay?"

It didn't take a genius to figure out why: dragging a hundred and seventy pound guy off a beam was hard enough, dragging an unconscious one practically impossible.

"Hold out for me a little longer, we'll do this together."

Dean didn't respond in words -- mainly because he didn't want to blow chunks over Sam, not until he'd got him down, anyway -- and also because he was focused on breathing, his eyes wide and desolate, mouth pulled tight and lips trembling.

Gravity had hinted to Dean that he wasn't on the ground and the way his dislocated knee hung told him he wasn't even close. So when Sam swayed and clambered over to him, he figured his brother had somehow managed to find a way up.

"Shit."

Dean frowned when he heard Sam curse under his breath, the grip on his shoulder increased pressure but soon let go.

"I'm good," Sam replied almost immediately.

"Okay, here goes nothing. Grab onto me. I'll do the rest."

Dean nodded and took a couple of deep breaths, gripped Sam's forearm with conviction.

"I gotta lift your leg—unpin it, then we'll get you down…be over before you know it."

Sam said he'd make it quick and he did. Dean closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

"On three… One…"

"Two."

Three seconds later, Dean was face down on cold concrete, Sam cursing and groaning beside him. The ground smelt like earth, mold and manure, tasted like it too. Dean licked his cracked lips, pulled and rubbed them together, made them work.

"Saaaaaammy…"

A single tear trailed from a weeping eye, down his cheek and into the crack of his mouth, mixing together with the blood trickling out of it. He figured the coppery taste had come from when he'd bit down on his tongue. Judging by the steady flow, he'd done some serious damage.

Including the burns on his arms and the fall it self, most of the nerves through his upper body were screaming for mercy and it should have been excruciating, in fact far beyond that. However, all those injuries had been seablocked by the dominant and ever greedy fucked-up leg. The one that was no longer connected up right and had been ventilated with a fresh half-inch hole. It throbbed to the beat of his heart, torn up flesh and pulled ligaments crying for attention. Dean slid a weary hand down his jeans, ignoring the scrape and tenderness of burnt skin.

A finger hovered over the wound as he patted around the perimeter, felt shredded jeans and dampness he assumed was blood. A shiver racked his body as he nicked a flap of tattered skin.

"Sonofabitch…," A string of gargled curses followed a release of uninvited tears.

His leg was fucked, good and proper. Maybe Sam could cut it off, no severed nerves, no dislocated knee, no pain, right? And while he was at it, cut off his arms, 'cause they hurt like a bitch too. He rolled his head to the other side. Watched Sam's chest rise and fall, _still alive-- check. Badly injured? _

Dean reached a shaky, probing hand over to his brother's face, and with a blooded thumb and forefinger, he pried and lifted Sam's lids. "You got a concussion, Sammy…" Dean checked Sam's left eye, watched the pupils dilate slowly, zoom then focus in the dim light, but his right eye remained large.

And as if Sam wanted to confirm Dean's finding by demonstration, he groaned his way to his hands and knees, scrambled forward mumbling, a hand clutching desperately over his abdomen the other on the wall to brace himself while he sprayed the floor with bile, regurgitated food and stomach lining. Not quite exorcist level but it could easily have scored a bronze for effort.

"I'm fine." Sam spat, wiping a hand across his mouth.

_Yep, definitely, concussed_, Dean concluded, because if the kid thought he was fine, he was delusional, confused and had lost his memory, quite possibly his mind too.

Not long after, Dean attempted his own exorcist spew scene, and scored pretty high.

"God, Sammy… this sucks." He clenched his jaw through the pain, every tiny movement causing ripples of agony through his body.

"I know, dude, I'm gonna get you outta here." Sam was slumped beside him, panting hard. His little brother had moved him away from the pooling mess he'd made, _they'd_ made -- totally gross -- and had him perched against a cabinet.

Dean heard the rip of clothing, grunts and pinched breaths of exertion.

"I'll do the knee last," Sam announced, and scooted closer to him.

"I'm gonna wrap your arms first, 'kay?" Sam gently lifted Dean's left arm, and held it in place pressed under his chin while he slowly rolled back Dean's sleeve. "Erm…this is gonna hurt." Sam didn't wait for an objection or response; it was Winchester code of practice while patching each other up. You warned and got it over with, _fast_.

"You're pretty lucky, dude… probably doesn't feel like it, but looks like first degree burns, could've been a lot worse." Sam finished the final knot to hold the fabric in place, and lightly squeezed Dean's shoulder before he moved to get a better view of the punctured leg.

"The leg though?…not so good. I need some supplies." Sam released a string of gargled coughs. The kid wasn't doing well; that was a given, but he had his brave face on and Dean appreciated it.

"I'm gonna scope the basement. I won't be far…just stay put." Sam blew out lethargically, and pulled in a deep breath as he stood.

Dean huffed and squeezed his eyes shut, then raised his head to the damp ceiling and groaned. "Damn…I really felt like a run."

Talking was an effort, but worth it to hear his brother snort at his lame joke.

Truth was, he did want to run away, drag Sam with him and take off in the other direction of …_everything_.

[]-[]-[]

Alcohol, bedding, a long plank of wood and some iron shears -- Sam's scavenge around the basement had racked up enough for him to stem the bleeding from Dean's leg, clean it as best he could, and offer some form of pain relief.

"Hey dude, look what I found." Sam lifted a bottle of scotch, unscrewed the top and held it to Dean's lips.

"Ahh…good shit." Dean gulped down another mouthful, letting the smoothness of the malt coat the pain. It looked like Dean would need the whole bottle just to dull out the pain; Sam could see it in the creases on his forehead, the tightness of his jaw.

He took a gulp himself before getting to work. The gardening shears were rusted but by the weight and texture, it was old metal, iron. Two in one; a temporary weapon against the spirits should they return and something to cut into the clothing.

He placed the shears between Dean's skin and jeans fabric. "Sorry, dude," Sam apologized, taking note of the pair Dean had on.

"Dude…these are my favorite…" Dean mumbled.

"Yeah, I know. No other way, man, and they're ruined anyway." Sam carefully cut towards the wound, watching Dean squirm around the kneecap, groaning as he reached the red, inflamed skin surrounding the hole.

"Here." He offered Dean another few sips of liquor before he went about cleaning the hole, trying his best not to cringe at the damaged tissue.

"Ready?"

"Yeah…no…" Dean pulled away. "Hang on." He placed a hand on his stomach and took a couple of deep breaths. "'Kay."

Sam waited a few more seconds, making sure his brother wasn't about to hurl all over him.

He nodded before he placed a firm but gentle hand on the top of Dean's thigh, and started to pour the alcohol over the wound. Dean's upper thigh muscle bucked and trembled under Sam's grip, and Dean made a low grunting noise.

"Almost done." Sam wrapped a strip of cut fabric above the gaping wound, applying pressure as he knotted it to stem the bleeding. His brother hummed a woeful tune in response. "Nearly there."

"Okay, done."

Last but definitely not least to settle was the dislocated kneecap. If Dean was gonna even attempt walking or limping out, it had to be snapped back in. Sam swallowed bile, anticipating the snap 'n cracked-bone sound produced when replacing the kneecap back into the socket. He remembered it well from observation, almost _felt_ the pain for him. He also remembered how Dean had passed out in his firm hold while Dad popped the knee back in. Later that night, when Dean woke up for some meds, he'd said it was a nine. Nine out of ten for a hunter was right up there on the excruciating scale. There was no fifteen year old younger brother to hold Dean down this time, no Dad to reassure them he'd done it millions of times before. It was just himself and Dean and some malevolent spirits waiting their turn. Round two with them was for later, after he'd put his brother back together. Sam gingerly felt around the knee, getting a feel for the positioning, and found the flesh warm and tender to the touch, very swollen.

He willed his hands and fingers to quit shaking, but they wouldn't, so he gripped Dean's thigh and placed a firm hold just under his calf. He wasted no time with moving the kneecap back into place, a little pressure towards him and then followed through with a push to help it slide back into place. And lucky for both of them, his brother was out for the count. It made no different to his light touch as he aligned and splinted the leg in place.

When he was done, Sam took a deep breath, placed a hand on Dean's chest and left it there for a long moment. "You did good, big bro."

Then he shook his head and took a long shaky swig of whiskey.

[]-[]-[]

Dean came two not long after. He immediately went for the whiskey and after a few gulps, the tightness of his jaw eased up a little.

They sat in silence for a while.

"Listen… Bobby's expecting us, so he'll call for help soon enough." Sam tried to make his voice sound as sure as he'd meant it. They both knew Bobby would eventually call but it could easily be a few days before any alarms would be raised.

"Uh huh…that's if our ghost friends don't come… finish the job first." Dean's head dropped back against the cabinet.

"Why're we here, Sammy?" Dean let the words roll out clumsily, drunk and drenched with exhaustion.

"We're on a case, don't you remember?" Sam wondered about the severity of Dean's concussion, thought about taking ownership of the bottle.

Dean swallowed and nodded. "I know…I mean here, Sam. Instead of out there…_living, _man…last days should be with you...Bobby." He was panting again, completely spent. "Not on cases…or head in books, I'm not meant to die here… Not yet."

Sam felt as if he had been sucker punched in the gut. His lips moved aimlessly before any words came out. Dean wasn't meant to die, period, certainly not today or in a month's time. "I'm sorry, Dean…"

Dean shook his head, placed a calloused hand on Sam's knee. "Just saying, dude... whatever happens… want good memories..._I'm gonna need em_."

The last words were subdued but Sam heard them loud and clear. His breath caught and his eyes glazed over, and something inside him began to unthread and unravel.

Dean being Dean caught the thread of his emotional breakdown and tied a knot by doing what Winchesters always did in cases like this. He reached for Sam's gun and released the safety.

"So… we gonna smoke these sons of bitches or what?" Dean asked, sounding confident and sure.

"To ashes," Sam replied.

[]-[]-[]

It took a couple of tries, a few choice words, a near blackout and an awesome younger brother for Dean to get up onto his feet, the latter helping him stay upright. The bum leg was on fire and furious about being horizontal; it was also doing nothing for his nausea, but he was able to bite down and hold back from thanking Sam with vomit.

Dean had a firm grip on Sam, who had without prompt taken most of his weight, leaving his throbbing knee and weeping thigh to continue its hellish plight. They moved slowly towards the light, across the damp floor of the basement, around and over debris towards the stairs to the first floor.

"You good?" Sam spoke softly, almost a whisper.

"Yeah," Dean replied immediately, a knee-jerk reaction. He was far from okay but it didn't matter when you had pyromaniac spirits on the loose. _How in the hell did they manage that? _

As if Sam heard the internal what-the-fucks, little brother began his own theory aloud. "I've heard about this before, Dean, spirits getting strong--angry enough to start fires. Especially if fire was part of their deaths."

"The barn," Dean replied, words spilling out before he even registered what he was saying. A memory had been jogged and the picture was taking shape before him. "There was one photo of the family standing outside the building, with some of the workers that had no names. I'm guessing they lived in the barn. It wasn't uncommon back then."

"You think it burnt down?"

"Possibly."

Bouncing ideas had distracted him while they made their way through the rumble. Sam was carrying almost all Dean's weight at some points. They were almost at the top of the broken staircase when Dean stopped abruptly, holding Sam in place with his dead weight.

"What is it?" Sam asked, concerned.

"It's down here."

"What is, Dean?"

"Bodies." Dean tried to wade through his memories and senses. "Not all concrete down here. We need to dig it up."

Sam was nodding before Dean finished his sentence. The moment Dean said "not all concrete," he realized his brother was right. One half of the basement was clearly dredged up and covered with dirt.

Dean felt a wisp of cold air slip past. One minute he was swatting at a materialised spirit, the next he was eating dirt and choking on his own blood.

-----End of chapter two-----

Good, bad, ugly? Please, I wanna know =)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Ha, Me? Own the Winchesters? Only in my dreams *wink*  
**Summary: ****Set** after '**Jus in Bello'** season three. Dean's deal is hanging over him like a freshly sharpened guillotine. Sam and Bobby they are doing the best they can to find a way out. But life still goes on, and Bobby sends the boys to Ohio to look into a haunted farmhouse. Things don't go according to plan.

**A/N:** Sweet charity fic for unplugged32 who bought me in the final auction. Thank you so much for all of you who have read and reviewed and have been so patient for this last chapter... THANK YOU.

Kindly beta'd by ficwriter1966, she's been supportive and thorough in bring out the best in me. I couldn't have asked for more from her. Any other faults my own.

[]-[]-[]

Sometimes even to live is an act of courage. ~Lucius Annaeus Seneca, _Letters to Lucilius_

[]-[]-[]

Dean woke to the sound of gun fire as it rebounded against the damp walls of the basement. Stale air pungent with gun powder and sweat. One side of his face was laid flat against concrete, pooled with blood. His only view was of Sam's scuffed boot.

He heard his brother empty another round of shots to the left. The last one was released to the right before it went silent.

Too fucking silent.

He blinked, cursed, and nearly bit his tongue clean off when his brother appeared on the floor in front of him. Gasping, scrambling and bucking like a fish out of water, Sam grabbed at his neck, struggled against the invisible strangle.

Dean took the opportunity to test the theory of how you could be beaten six ways from Sunday and still move like the wind. It took only seconds for him to drag himself to his feet, leap in one direction to retrieve the iron shears and deliver a crazy array of swoops that cut through the materialized entity.

The spirit shrieked before releasing his brother, then dispersed into the air.

In the same amount of time it took him to get vertical, Dean collapsed into a heap beside Sam. Every nerve ending in his body sent him the memo that he was still alive and still very fucked up.

"Sammy?"

Dean rolled his head to the side, spat out a gelatinous glob of mucus and blood.

"Yeah," Sam replied around a frenzy of coughs.

"Dig."

Sam didn't question the logic; he helped Dean sit up, placed the iron shears in his grip and got to work.

While Sam dug, Dean tried not to pass out. He also looked for stuff that would burn. Accelerant was useful, but it wasn't the only thing their Dad had taught them to use when burning bones. And sometimes you just had to make do even if you were beat up and bleeding like a stuck pig.

The scavenge around the basement nearly brought him to tears from the agony but it was worth it.

"Found salt, dude. How you doing over there?" Dean panted.

"Dean, I got something." Sam said right before something got him.

[]-[]-[]

"Sammy, watch out!" Sam heard his brother yell but he was already on the ground when everything began to fade.

Being strangled the first time had sucked. Strangulation the second time was excruciating and made the previous go-round feel like foreplay.

The time it took the spirit to show it self, knock him to the ground and have him in a deadly a chokehold _again_ was less than a second.

He couldn't breathe.

Sam caught a glimpse of Dean from the corner of his eye before his vision blurred into a white haze.

"Hang in there, Sammy!" Dean called out.

Sam felt like he was hanging except he couldn't move his legs, kick or try anything to free himself. The spirit was strong and unrelenting, and there was absolutely no give.

"Deeee…" Sam ground out between strangled gasps of breath.

His lips tingled, warm then cold--icy to a point he couldn't feel them anymore. He couldn't feel anything.

[]-[]-[]

Dean managed to crawl the few inches to the grave just as his leg cramped up and called it quits. He seasoned the remains with salt and liquor then chased the concoction with a lit match.

The light hurt his eyes; hungry orange and yellow flames illuminated the room. For the first time the basement and the destruction were clear in view.

Sam was out for the count or dead. Dean couldn't stomach the latter so he clung to the thread of hope with a death grip, concentrated to see if Sam was breathing.

Just when his vision began to fade, he spotted a familiar face appear from nowhere.

"Bobby?"

Bobby charged towards them, scrabbling to his knees.

"Check on Sammy," Dean croaked before closing his eyes.

"Sam's gonna be fine, Dean. You sit tight,-- I'm gonna help him out to the car and come back for you."

The warm squeeze on his shoulder made him relax a fraction. "'Kay."

It felt like no time had passed, he must have blacked out because Bobby was back shaking him and talking too fucking loud. "Come on, Dean. Wake up for me, kid."

"Nurrgh."

He was vertical. The throbbing leg confirmed he was vertical and in a world of pain.

"Let me do most the work. Focus on staying conscious. Less than a couple of meters."

Those meters felt like miles but they made it. He'd never been so pleased to feel the comfort of cold leather. Something inside him unwound and the tenseness in his shoulders eased. Sam was alive, he was in his car, he was home.

[]-[]-[]

The mechanical hum stirred Dean awake. Sam was to his left, slouched awkwardly against the window; a foggy patch marked his breath. He blinked a few times to clear the haze of a pain-induced sleep, then rested his head on the cool glass to watch the wash of green, yellow and orange of the meadow and sunset as they whizzed through the country road.

He grimaced and risked a look out the back window. All he could see was smoke and flames on the horizon. It wasn't his time after all; he wasn't ready to drive towards the flames. With so little time left he didn't think he'd ever be ready.

Sam groaned beside him and Dean placed a trembling hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

[]-[]-[]

Dean could feel the tug and pull of damaged flesh, the cold and sharp of the needle. He wanted to scream out loud and tell whoever it was to quit torturing him but he opted for passing out instead.

When he next woke he knew he was on a bed. Crisp starchy sheets, florescent light and stained ceiling spelled out motel.

"'Bout time -- you boys are gonna send me to into an early grave. Gold medal for scaring the shit outta me."

Dean grunted, regretted it as he gagged.

"Dammit, boy, don't you dare! I'm done cleaning up puke. Trashcan's on your left, brother's on your right. Cell, pain pills and gun on the night stand. I'll be back soon."

He swallowed, panting while trying to push away the nausea. "Bobby?" He hiccupped and swallowed bile, turned his head to his left. He knew he couldn't have been dead because it couldn't hurt this much to be dead. Dying, on the other hand…

"I gotta pick up my car and go grab a few things."

Dean groaned and licked his chapped lips.

"Trashcan, night stand, brother," Bobby repeated. "Don't you move an inch till I get back. I mean it, Dean."

Dean heard the door open, followed by an almost inaudible and reassuring, "You're safe," that let him slip back into unconsciousness.

[]-[]-[]

Sam was out of it. Sad thing about it was that it was probably the best rest he'd had since finding out about Dean's deal. Dean made a mental note that he could knock Sam out if he refused to give that particular subject a rest. His kid brother just didn't know when to call it quits. Dean groaned as he went for the pills and glass of water Bobby had left out for him. He placed a shaky palm on Sam's face, stirring his brother of his concussed haze.

"Take them, Sam."

Dean watched his brother mouth open and close in a futile attempt to talk. "Sorry, didn't get that, Sammy. You don't take them, I'm gonna down them all for myself." Dean chuckled and moaned. "Fuck."

"You 'kay, Dee?"

"Peachy…Sonofabitch." His leg was still pretty sore. Whatever Bobby had given him previously was out of his system and not masking any pain.

After Sam shuffled had himself upright against the headboard, Dean took the glass and offered meds, placed them in Sam's palm and the glass to his lips. "You have 'em, Dean," his brother slurred.

Dean didn't object; he dumped the remaining pills on his tongue and washed them down with tepid sips of water, willing them to stay down long enough to take the razor-sharp edge off or until he could pass out again, whichever came first.

"How'd we get here?" Sam asked.

"I dragged your sorry asses here, is how." Bobby walked in with their duffels gripped in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other. There was a first aid kit balanced against his chest. He kicked the door shut.

After another round of wound-licking, a puking contest between Dean and Sam, Bobby filled the gap between blackouts, the motel room and patch ups. Somehow they both managed to piss away two days of temporary consciousness. An interesting story if he'd heard it all. It was Sam who later recapped the finer details. Turned out he was pretty banged up and the concussion was serious.

Sam and Dean couldn't have been thankful enough for the "gut feeling" that led Bobby to drive over. That and the fact they he'd left over a hundred panicked phone messages. Alarms bells brought him there just in the nick of time. He'd single-handedly dragged and bundled them into his car before doing a rough clean-up job on the Littmans' house and drove Dean's car as far as he could before calling the authorities.

A phone went off in the small room, screen illuminating the pale walls. Dean turned his attention to Bobby who looked at the screen and sighed, "The Littmans." He moved to the door as he told them, "I'm gonna take this outside."

Dean cringed and nodded apologetically. The Littmans' house was a mess. It was free of spooks but the damage done was a hefty bill to pay for that luxury. They agreed to go with the "We were away on holiday, gas fire" story Bobby had skillfully conjured. It eliminated a lot of questions from the cops, also allowed for insurance to cover most of the damage.

Sam appeared in Dean's view with the first aid kit. "Move over," he said. "I'm gonna change your dressing."

"Sure thing, Florence."

Sam remained stern faced. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice, smartass."

"Oh, lighten up, Sammy."

"Whatever." Sam got to work. He was fast and gentle and far too good at patching Dean up, too accustomed to cleaning away blood and closing his wounds. They both were. It was all wrong but their reality made it a necessity. Just like laughing in the face of death even when death no longer smiled back.

"Thank you." The words slipped from his lips.

Sam's gaze shifted between Dean's eyes and his bandaged arms. "No problem, dude."

"I mean it, Sammy. I appreciate what you're doing; I know you're doing the best you can. No matter how this plays out in the end, that's what's important to me. That's all I can ask of you."

Sam bobbed his head, pressed his lips together and continued to nod silently.

"I just wanted you to know that. You should know that."

Sam opened his mouth to say something but shook his head and smiled. "Thanks, man. That's all I could have asked from you."

----- End -----

Thank you so much for reading.

Good, bad ugly? I wanna know.

That's one fic down, I have a sick!Dean and spn_females fic in the works so keep a look out.


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